Just thinking about the subject of making a difference lately. Kinda cheesy…
I gave blood yesterday. One of my goals recently has been to drink 64 oz of water per day. My bladder is still adjusting to this goal. I went to give blood, not thinking about this. I went to the beginning stage, where they give you the teaser needle and fill out the paperwork. I filled out the test and flipped over the READY sign and met my poker. People assume that those who are spending their time helping people give blood, especially those going into the veins and collecting the blood, are always very friendly, but this is not true. She told me to follow, and that was all. Around this time, my bladder attempted to politely interject. We walked over to the bloodbed. As with a barber or a doctor, pokers customarily make small talk with their victims, inquiring a bit about their lives or asking how their day is going. My poker opted to participate in none of this. Upon reaching the bed, I received nothing but instructions and harshly direct questions: which arm, lie down, squeeze gently. Upon lying down, I realized the full extent that my bladder was, as if lying down before sleeping. My mind began to imagine that I could wait it out during the process, rationalizing that liquid would be being drained out of my body anyhow. However, right after she had marked where on my arm I was to be poked, I asked politely if I could use the restroom. She responded with no words.
I was frustrated with her, but felt that I had gotten back at her for her rudeness by peeing at such an inconvenient time. We were 1:1. Upon returning, she poked me without any comforting words, and proceeded to make small talk with the victim on the next bed over, putting her in the lead, 1:2. I responded by making small talk with a different poker, 2:2. Upon continuing to squeeze aggressively to encourage fast blood pumping, my poker spoke to me. She informed me that because I had little fatty tissue, squeezing too hard would result in flattening of my veins and slower blood flow. Her showy knowledge and mocking of my skinny arms put the score at 2:3. I tried using her moderate squeezing method for a while, surprised that it was taking so much longer than my previous pokings. Also, my machine kept beeping. After a while, the poker from one bed over became suspicious and strolled over. He informed me that the flow was very slow and asked me if I had had difficulties in the past. I told him no, and this resulted in his examinating the needle stuck in my arm and then rotating it and moving it around for about a minute until the flow was better. At this time, my poker came over and realized that her poor poking skills were revealed, making the score 3:3. At this point, it was brought to my attention that in order for my blood to be accepted, for some reason, it had to be drained out of me in a time of no greater than twenty minutes. By the time my blood flow was adjusted to a realistic speed, I was already around 17 minutes. Luckily, thanks to my and the other poker’s high spirits, I finished filling the bag at a time of 19:48, just enough to foil my poker’s scheme of preventing my donation of blood. This also brought the score to 4:3. I had defeated her.
I did have a great experience meeting another donator, so all socializing was not lost. And I like to imagine that my poker was humbled by her loss. I look forward to June, when I can have another adventure donating.